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178 [For the Southern Field and Fireside.] JACK HOPETON AND HIS FRIENDS OR, THE AU TOMOGRAPHY OF A GEORGIAN. BY WM. W. TURNER. That night we sat round Mr. Bently’s hospi table board. , „. “ I must tell you all, now,” said Frank, how I became acquainted with these gentlemen; and it will reveal a little incident in my life, concern ing which none of you know anything. “ Better let it pass, Mr. Bently,” said I. “.There we differ, though,” resumed Frank; * I must acquaint my family with the gallant service you onco rendered me, and then they will know how to treat you.” I tried to speak again. “ Never mind,” said he, “ I will spare your modesty as much as I can, to do justice chivalry. Last summer, father, I all among the mountains of Geo f - - 1 # great niaDy were located for the,^ a - cterg j Btopped in a people of eveningi where j had never little viUac- and had not a single acquaintance, piazza of the hotel where I put up sat three or four men conversing. “ Seating myself in the same piazza, but as far as possible from them, I took up a newspaper with which to amuse myself till supper. For some time I paid »o attention to th efish party ; but Dually they began to indulge in pointless witticisms on Georgia and Georgians. «i soon found from their significant glances, that they were very anxious for me to overhear them. They supposed I was alone, and they could insult me with impunity. With this view, they became more and more pointed m their re marks, and more insulting in the looks they di rected toward me. “ Finally I rose and walked over to them. “ ‘Gentlemen,’ I began with a low bow, ‘judging from circumstances, 1 conclude that you intend the remarks you are making, as an insult to me. Will you please inform me wheth er or not I am correct in my surmises ?’ “‘Really, sir 1’ said one of them, coolly enough, and in a jeering tone, ‘ I don’t see what right you have to ask the question. We have not spoken a single word to you, and as you are a perfect stranger to us, it cannot be presumed that we knew our remarks would of fend you.’ “ ‘ Wliat you say wears some appearance of plausibility,’ answered I. ‘I will not say what bad taste and want of good breeding you display by indulging in ill-natured and would-be witty remarks in the presence of one who, as you say, is a perfect stranger to you, and who, may, by any possible chance, be one one of the persons you abuse. To cut the matter short, I declare that you did, by your manner, give me reason to suppose that you were offering me an insult, and I demand from you, sir, an avowal or disavowal of such intention.’ “ * And suppose,’ answered the one I had now singled out, * I should refuse to give you either ?’ “ ‘ Then,’ answered I, * you force mo to the disagreeable necessity of pulling your nose, or striking you in the face 1’ “ You see, father,” said Frank, apologetically, “ I had began to lose my temper. “ ‘ What is your answer, sir ?’ said I, seeing the man hesitate. ‘lf you fail to disavow any intention of insulting me, I demand the satisfac tion due from one gentleman—if you are a gen tleman—to another. If you are not a gentle man, this riding whip shall be my avenger.’ “ ‘ But where is your friend ?’ asked the fel low. “ ‘ I will procure one, by to-morrow after noon.’ “ ‘ Yes,’ answered he, now seeing away to get out of the difficulty, ‘ that is true, no doubt, but we must leave this place early to-morrow morning.’ “ * See here, sir,’ said I, for my blood had got fully up, although I did not lose control over myself, ‘ you perceive this riding whip ? Un less you consent to remain and give me satis faction, I shall apply it to your shoulders, you cowardly poltroon !’ “ This I was determined to do; for I was well armed—traveling in the mountains it's best you know —and risk their worst. While I was al lowing the puppy a moment to decide, these two gentlemen here, Mr. Fitzwarrou and Mr. Ilope ton, stepped out of a room opening on the piazza. “* We ha"e heard your conversation, sir,’ said Mr. Hopeton, to me. ‘lama Georgian, and shall be proud to act as your friend, in this matter.’ ‘“And I,’ said Mr. Fitzwarren, ‘can as sure you that you could have no better friend. As he is a Georgian, and I am not, of course I must yield him ti« honor of acting in this case.’ “ ‘ I shall be mu*, obliged to you both, gen tlemen, to give me you? assistance in this mat ter. My father is a Georgian by birth, and we spend nearly half our time in this State, at a residence he still owns.’ “ With two such friends as Mr. Hopeton and Mr. Fitzwarren, matters were soon arranged.— They were cool and peremptory. Somewhat to my surprise, the man with whom I had had the altercation, chose to meet me rather than apolo gize. “ Next morning, before breakfast, we exchang ed shots, and I sent a bullet into snob’s shoul der—l-didn't want to hurt him much —while I got Off with a very slight flesh wound. “ Yon may be sure I cultivated the acquaint ance of my t W o friends. Several weeks in their company a high opinion of their merit, and I invited thd«* to come and see us. Yet they were passing as CO ar to us as D and did not even intend to lc* me know they were there. Fortunately, I saw sbeir names on the .hotel register, and almost dragged them home with me.” During all this recital, Fitzwarren sipping his tea, or dallying with his toast, whlK the old expression of disdainful abstraction, I had become so well acquainted, brooded <wpr his countenance. Occasionally a smile of milw gled bitterness and melancholy would flit across his features, and then would become cold .and rigid. Sometimes, too, he would gaze earnestly at Helen Bently, to see how she regarded the matter. “ Pray, Mr. Bently,” said I to Frank’s father, “ how do you like the part we acted ?” “ You have placed us all under obligations, gentlemen, which we will endeavor to repay by all the means in our power.” “ Madam,” now said Fitzwarren to Mrs. Bent ly, “ I was sure that the father would thank us for the part we acted ; but I fear that this reci tal has lowered us as much in your opinion, as it has elevated us in his.” “ You acted,” began Mrs. Bently, “ from a noble impulse I suppose, and —” “ Not impulse, madam,” interrupted Fitzwar ren, “so far as I am concerned—though you must recollect that my friend Hopeton acted the principal part, and to him your thanks are main ly due—so far as I am concerned, I acted from a long-settled principle—one which I think 1 can jjjg SOW2K3£B3ff MM3 EXEXSXEE* support with strong arguments, though this is not the time nor the place for it. “But I humbly beg your pardon, Madame, for interrupting you. Please say on.” “ I set out to say this,” resumed Mrs. Bently. “If either of you had persuaded my son to fight a duel against his inclination, or judgment, then —excuse ray candor —I should hate and despise you. Since you assisted him to carry out an intention already formed, and it was one considered justifiable by a great many men—my husband among the number —however much I may disagree with you all, I am bound to thant you for acting as friends to my boy.” uecp h ow , Fitzwarren heard these ca im. look ed then turned his Helen Bently. She ing eyes enquiring^ ead jj y( and neither spoke. J encounter^ * tQ )iear w ] iat s h e thought of our | Venture. “Miss Bently,” said I, “as a true and gallant knight, I am anxious to know whether my con duct in this affair meets with your approbation.” j Again I encountered those eyes, now eloquent : with emotion, as she replied, “My mother has expressed my feelings ex actly, and I must add my thanks to hers. In deed, at the risk of being considered un feminine by you, I must say, that I can’t , bear the idea of a brother or father submitting ; to insult.” “ Ah! Helen,” said her mother. “ Perhaps I am wrong, mother; but how can I change my nature?” “ And how, Miss Bently,” said I, “ would you like the lover who would submit tamely to in sult?” “Least of all,” was the reply. “Such a cra ven could not be a lover of mine.” And her eye flashed, and her nostril dilated proudly. “Helen,” said her mother, “if men’s pas sions needing arousing, there might be some propriety in speaking thus; but it is the prov- j ince of woman to lay the demons, anger and re venge. Her mission is not to stir up strife, but it is one of peace. It is for her, by gentle words and kindly acts, to subdue and soften the quarrelsome and turbulent spirit which reigns in the bosom of the sterner sex.” “ You are right," answered Helen, as her whole mood seemed to change from proud defi ance to maidenly gentleness, “You are right, mother.” “ Suppose, for instance, brother,” added she, turning to Frank, “ you had killed that man, merely for speaking a few arrogant words.” “You put rather a strong case,” said Frank, “ but I had no more idea of killing him, than I have of killing you at this moment.” “ Shoot at a man, and have no idea of killing him!” “ Exactly!” “ Suppose, then, you had killed him acciden tally.” “ I handle a pistol too well for that. I mere ly intended to punish his impertinence, by hit ting him in the shoulder.” “ You were right, Frank,” here spoke Mr. Bently. “We should never seek the life of a fellow man, except for the gravest considera tions. That cur, though, deserved just the pun ishment he got.” “ But think,” interposed Mrs. Bently, “of the risk Frank ran, of being killed himself.” “ Os course,” answered the young gentleman, “there is some risk in all duels; but where one is a good shot, there is no more danger than there is in a thousand other things we do, every day of our lives. Think of galloping a horse. If the girth breaks, or the horse falls, you may be severely hurt —perhaps killed. You may trip in running down a staircase, and if your head shall strike the landing first, as it probably will, your neck will not be worth much.” “ It depends, then,” said Helen, “ on whether a man is a good shot, whether —” “We’ll come to that presently, Helen,” re sumed Frank, interrupting. “Though, right here, I will acknowledge that there are some apparently insuperable arguments against duel ling, and you were probably thinking of one then. “ But I say if we look for danger, we can find it on all sides, at every moment; so our lives are full of it. They hang by the most brittle threads. Then when we are constantly exposed to danger and cannot possibly escape such ex posure, the fear of it should not prevent us from resenting an insult.” “It is useless,” said Mr. Bently, “to discuss such a question as this. Wo shall never arrive at a conclusion. As Frank says, there are some arguments against duelling which are in superable. There are others in favor of it, which are equally unanswerable. Show me the most nncomprising opponent of duelling, and if he has a spark of spirit, or human feeling in his bosom, I can put cases to him in which he must acknowledge that a duel is the only resort. It is folly to say, that under no circumstances is it right to go on the field.” “ Perhaps, then,” said Fitzwarren, “it is best to lay down no rule for the guidance of a man’s conduct in the matter, but let the circumstances es each particular case, as it comes up, decide for him.” “ I think so,” answered our host. “I am rather of the opinion,’’was now my remark “ that men’s opinions on questions like this are instinctive, and not to be altered by reasoning. For this cause, we ought to be very charitable towards those who entertain opinions different from our own.” “ Probably they are,” answered Fitzwarren, “ but I must acknowledge I have a great con tempt for the man who is not willing to hold himself responsible for all his words and acts.” “As it is likely that contempt of yours is in stinctive,” answered I, “ you cannot be blamed for it.” “But such discussions,” said Mr. Bently, ris ing, “are not for the presence of the gentler sex. Let us adjourn to the drawing-room.” “You are a musician, Miss Bently,” I said, when I saw several different instruments, and piles of music scattered about the room. “ I must plead guilty to playing a good deal, at least,” was the candid reply. ■ allowed to claim anything on ees rendered your brother, I songs. And I think my friend •in in my request.” i Fitzwarren, in his cold, con could afford me more pleasure Bently sing.” such songs as ‘ McGregor’s Gathering?”’ \ “Ah yes 1” I exeh™ n ed; “ and ; The Captive Knight.’ ” “ The harp is the fit accompaniment for them,” was Helen's reply as she herself at that instrument. Reader have you ever hetfcd the two songs above mentioned ? Perhaps yon have; but did you ever hear them sung by a prayd, imperial looking beauty, who accompanied her voice with the harp? As Helen Bently’s powerful but mellow voice rang out, “ Cease the wild slarion,” and her glorious eyes lighted up, and her lovely countenance glowed with animation, she seemed the very personification of proud enthusiasm. * 7, „ a » to young ladies And then those model arD r* iarp ? I believe with ugly arms ever play ‘ l £. om pi e t e the agita not. It needed not all tl . us liv bosom, tion of the flutterer j agt _ These songs were °Y’have, Mr. nopeton?” “ What now will’ ag g j, e looked U p and asked the young j caught my eye. „ answered I. “The songs “I like va s' n g’ are glorious, but now if you you have jug' e „ u ; lar a nd favor us with some j would expressive little melodies—” ; sw fioli!” w ,s the reply, “it will never do to ‘ touch the light guitar’ in the house. Let us go out on tl ; colonade, where the breezes can come to us irough the orange groves.” And to 1 le colonade we went, where some beautiful so gs, breathing of love and devotion, warbled in i soft tone, made me conclude that these were le themes, after all, which best suit ed the voicetf Helen Bently. But all thhgs human have an end, and so, after an hoi passed in conversation, Helen bade me gooJ night. I rose, as I returned her good-night, aid watched her form, as its disap peared through tie door-way. Then I sat down and leaned over the balustrade, gazing out on the still night, “he moon shone over the scene I have already* described to the reader. The gentle dash of the waves on the beach was heard, and a bi-eze stirred the foliage of the dark evergreens; The odor of orange blossoms, of magnolias, ar* that most fragrant of all flow era—the cape jefcamine—was wafted to me. Over all, love ast a mantle of romance, and its influence ste< ied my senses in a delicious in toxication, as 11 ought on the vision of loveli ness, brighter tl n any I had pictured to myself, even in dreams, I’hicli had crossed my path. I don’t know i>w long I sat thus, but I was aroused by Fitzvtirren, who asked me if it was not time to go to >ed. I rose mechanically, fol lowing a servant who showed me to a room. The reader nod hardly be told that, “sleep ing I dreamed.” 1 _ CHAPTER XVIII. “Gentlemen,”!laid Mr. Bently, next morning at breakfast, “ofcourse that little portmanteau you brought is ijt all of your baggage. Write a note to your hoel-keeper, and I will send for your trunks.” I “We will notmed them, sir,” answered Fitz warren. “We mist go on to-day.” “That will nt'tr do,” said Mr. Bently.— “ Frank, you surely are not going to allow your friends to depart to soon?” “I did my best,yesterday,” was Frank’s re ply, “ to make than promise to stay a long while, but I could jiot prevail on them.” “ Mrs. Bently, r again spoke our host, “ and you, Helen, must ry your powers of persuasion. Our character for iospitality is at stake.” “If any thing l can say gentlemen,” com menced Mrs. Bently, “would have any influence, just consider it as laid.” “Come,” she added, as we were silent, “I can hardly believe that young gentlemen just out of college are! so pressed with business as not to be able to sjare a week or two for those who are so anxious to entertain them, and we even flatter oursehes, so capable of doing so.” “We do not doult your willingness, Madam,” answered Fitzwarren in his grave tone. “We do not doubt your willingness, nor your capacity, to entertain us, fhr beyond our deserts—though I beg pardon of my friend; I continually forget that liis services were far greater than mine.— Only the most urgent business could induce us to forego your hospitable invitation.” “ Could a simple maiden like myself,” now said Helen, as she turned her lustrous eyes from one of us to the other. “Could a simple maiden like myself say ought to change the determina tion of two of ‘creation’s lords?” It is only doubt on this point which has kept me so long silent.” For sometime, I had been debating with myself whether, if Fitzwarren could not be prevailed on to remain, I should not suffer him to go on alone. ’ Finally Helen’s bright eyes had settled the question, and the only difficulty con sisted in framing an excuse for the sudden altera tion in my plans, since the day previous I had assured Frank Bently that it was utterly im possible for us to spend more than a day or two with him. I was confident there would be a letter for me in D by the next mail, and I thought once I would send for that, and pretend I had received intelligence in it which would allow' me to spend a longer time at Bentwold; but the lively tone of Helen’s enquiry, determined me on a bold stroke. I would address her in a tone of such exaggerated compliment, announcing my accept ance of their invitation, that they should not suspect how much in earnest I was. “ I cannot answer for Mr. Fitzwarrcnn,” said I, “but as for myself, I am the slave of beauty, and the slightest wish expressed by one like Miss Bently is to me a law.” “Then,” again spoke Helen, “allow me to express a very earnest wish, that you will re main long enough for us to show you how grate ful we can be for services rendered one of our family.” “ Mr. Bently,” was my answer to this speech, “you may send for my baggage.” At this moment I caught Fitzwarren’s eye fixed on me with a look of enquiry, so slight though, that no one not well acquainted with him would have noticed it. “ Mr. Fitzwarren,” said Helen, turning to him, “ since I have discovered that I have such influ ence, I am vain enough to imagine that I may even persuade you. What is your answer?” “ Still the same,” was the reply; and Fitzwar ren gazed, as if fascinated, into the bright eyes fixed on him. • “Indeed,” he continued, while his pale face grew still paler, and his voice sunk almost to a whisper, “ Indeed, I dare not stay.” “Mr. Hopeton, then, as having obeyed my commands, merits the appellation of “ tme and gallant knight,” while you, I am sixty to say, prove rather recreant.” All this was said in a gay playful humor, but hardly a smile did Fitzwarren call to his lips, in response to the general laughter of the par ty. “Are you serious,” said he to me, at last, “ in saying that you intend to remain longer ?” “Never more so,” was my reply. “You would not, surely, have me to forfeit the good name you perceive I have now gained?” “No, certainly not,” he answered, after a mo ment's abs traction. “ Well ” he added, “as alone, my move ments perhaps will bo more expeditious. I must be off soon.” He rose from the breakfast table, to go to his room, and I followed him. “And so, Jack,” said Fitzwarren, when we were alone, “ you love her?” “It would be useless for me to deny it, Fitz,” replied I, though slightly coloring, as I was some what surprised. “ Well she is worthy of all the wealth of love you can bestow.” “Is she not? I have dreamed of beauty, but never such as hers. Such eyes! such eye brows ! such a magnificent figure I” “Yes,” said Fitzwarren musingly, “she is in deed lovely. Why are such visions sent on earth, to disturb men’s hearts?” “ Why! my dear friend ? To be worshipped, adored, striven for, sought after; wooed and won!” “True!” said he, still musing and gazing on me without seeming conscious of it. None without hope, can love the brightest fair— But love can hope, where reason would despair. “ There is no reason why you should not win her. You are good looking, ardent, eloquent, true-hearted.” “ Let me ask you one thing, though, Fitzwar ren,” said I suddenly. “ Have I been so trans parent, think you, that the family here have read me, as you have ?” “Oh no. Friendship, like love, is sharp eyed. I, being acquainted with you, and having stu died human nature long and earnestly, was able to see symptoms, which entirely escape ordina ry observation.” “ You relieve me very much.” “ For one who is no older than you Jack, you have a fair share of self-possession.” “I am glad, though, Fitzwarren, to find that you agree with me so well in opinion, concern ing Miss Bently.” “ The man who differs with you is totally de void of taste.” “But how long,” continued Fitzwarren, “do you remain at Bentwold?” “ A week. Where shall I meet you at the end of that time?” “In Tallahassee. At least I shall be there.” “ So will I.” “ Provided you can tear yourself away.” “Do not fear me. I will not disappoint you. Have I ever failed to keep an engagement with you?” “ No.” “ Nor will I now.” “ I have never known you to be in love be fore, Jack,” said Fitzwarren, as a sickly smile flitted across his features. “ That is very true. A new phase of exis tence seems to be opened to me. * ‘ Still let me love.’ l ’Tis sweet, oh ’tis sweet.’ It is ‘joy forever ’ to love such a being as Helen Bent ly.” A sort of spasm passed over Fitzwarren’s face. “This tooth!” he exclaimed, as he put up his hand. “My friend,” said I, hardly noticing his ex clamation, “it is a luxury to love. You are too cold. Is it not strange that beauty such as Helen Bently’s can only extort from you the most common place and trite compliments?” “My God!” he suddenly exclaimed with start ling energy. “Would you have me loose my wild spirit ? You know it not. Do you wish to see a volcano exposed ? What have Ito do with love ? —unless, indeed I act up to the spir it of the quotation you made just now —but you did not begin far enough back. ’Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it has never moved; But though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! “You must excuse me, Jack;” continued Fitz warren “this damned tooth makes me nervous and almost petulant.” It was the first time I had ever heard my friend use an oath on so trivial an occasion, though occasionally I had heard him, when deeply moved, breathe forth maledictions which made my blood run cold. But he left Bentwold, taking leave of the gen tlemen in a rather formal, but very polite way, and bowing almost reverently, as he bade adieu to the ladies. chapter xix. How that week at Bentwold passed, I can hardly tell—pleasantly, though. It turned out that my mother had been well known to Mrs. Bently’ in their younger days, so that the Bent ly’s were very well satisfied as to my family. I rode, walked, sung, read, with Helen Bent ly, I didn’t tell her I loved her. What was the use? She was a woman, and did a woman ever require to be told that she was loved?— Instinct Informs women upon this subject, with out the intervention of words. Oh! those glorious rides on the beach, “while nature’s lyre, in one harmonious concert broke.” Those bewitching walks through the orange groves, "when the full moon poured down her flood of radiance! “ Who could e’er be cold or coy, with love and moonlight blessed?” Doubtless the reader is very thankful that I have forgotten the talks I had with the adored object of my affections. Love-making in novels is generally tiresome to every one but the author, even when indulged in a few scenes at a time. A whole week of love-sick discourse, would “do for" what might be otherwise the best tale ever written. The first few days of my visit passed swiftly and happily. But the time began to approach when I had promised to meet Fitzwarren, in Tallahassee. As long as there was no imme diate prospect of separation, I dreamed on, con tent that 1 was allowed to be by Helen s side; to look on her lovely countenance, to listen to hsr musical cadences. The near approach of the time for my depar ture brought up the painful thought that per haps I might never again see her whose influ ence had caused the world —life—to appear to my eyes in brighter colors than ever before. On the day previous to my departure, we were returning from a ride, in which we had en countered the handsome, dashing Dick Butler, and his charming sister. I was introduced *o the former, and could not help being leased with him; yet a certain little thnl> oi nervous ness, or uneasiness—could it fee jealousy ?—agi tated my breast, as I nou'ced the ease and elo quence of his address, as well as the evident and unconcealed pleasure the meeting seemed to af ford Ilffcn. I was but a human being, and as such liable to annoyance from the green eyed monster.— However, I know I was not very jealous, for I had rather too much of another human weakness to wit: vanity—to suffer a great deal from the first. But I said we were returning from a ride. I could not resist a certain impulse. “To-morrow,”l began, “I must leave Bent wold.” There was no reply, and I continued, “This is indeed a delightful portion of coun try, and my sojourn has been pleasant in the extreme.” I looked at Helen, who seemed to have lost her tongue, but not her presence of mind. Once more I essayed. “ Miss Bently, you can never be ennuyie, resi ding among the noble groves, near this pleasant soashore, in the vicinity of such attractive neigh bors as those we met but just now ?” “ You like Clara Butler, then. lam so glad. I assure you she is worthy the admiration of any one.” “Yes; I admire her very much, but young ladies—Miss Bently for instance—might possi bly admire the brother more than the sister.” “Oh,” was the ready and unembarrassed re ply. “ Mr. Butler is one of our nearest neigh bors ; a noble young man, a great friend of my brother. Our families are very intimate, and I like him very much.” After all, “ Thinks Ito myself)” I am wasting breath. I can find out nothing, and what right have 1 to be prying into Miss Bently’s secrets, even if she has any! I addressed Helen again. “ I shall never forget the pleasant rides you and I have had together, even if I try. I shall always remember them, and—Miss Bently, I crave permission to remember you." “ There is no need of asking permission, Mr. Hopeton,” was the reply, “ I certainly do not wish to be forgotten by my brother’s friend.” “ Your brother’s friend! Is that all ? “ I know I am talking rather strangely”’ I continued, “but I wish to think of you as ‘my star.’ Perhaps it may be as the 4 bright par ticular star’ Shakspeare speaks of, but let it be so.” My fair companion seemed at a loss how to reply. “As for myself, I had rather be hated than forgotten,” said I again, “ and in all my but perhaps my garrulity offends Miss Bent ly?” She raised her eye to mine, and I looked ea gerly into them, striving to penetrate the very depths of their expression, as she answered, “ I cannot be offended, Mr. Hopeton, at any thing which I do not understand.” “I mean,” said I, “simply this, that I hope ydu will remember me as one to whom your good opinion is worth more than that of all the world besides. At the same time, I ask per mission to think of you, as one who has allowed me to partake somewhat of the kindly thoughts which it is natural for you to bestow on all with whom you come in contact.” There was no reply. “ Does this offend you ?” I asked. “ Offend me ?” was the answer, to me inex pressibly musical. “ Offend me? Oh no!” And our ride was now over. When faraway from Bentwold, I repealed over and over again, “ On the wide sea of life, shines one unclouded light. And still it burns softest and clearest by night; But its lustre, though lovely, alas! is afar. And that is the reason I call thee —my star.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) CATHOLIC UNI?Y t>F*’t3e PROTESTANT CHURCHES. We happered, fortunately, to be present at Epiphany Church, yesterday morning, and were interested much beyond our expectations. Some time since, it appears, that a number of our principal clergymen of different denominations, signed a paper which was published in all the religious and some of the daily journals, the bearing of which was that they were deeply concerned at the divisions among Christians. — They proposed that there should be a concert of prayer for Catholic Unity ori the first Monday in October. The Rev. J. W. Cracraft offered the Epiphany Church, Fifteenth and Chestnut Streets, for a meeting of ministers at nine o’clock. When we arrived at the church, at perhaps twenty min utes after nine, we found it crowded in almost every part, with an audience of ladies and gen tlemen. This, of itself, of so early an hour, on a week day, was exciting. Looking around, we saw, everywhere, clergymen of all denomina tions, and we have been told that 150 were present. Mr. Cracraft presided, ministers of the churches crowding about him in and around the chancel. The Rev. Dr. Boardman, of the Presbyterian Church (O. 5.,) opened the meeting with prayer; Mr. Cracraft read from the Scrip tures. He then read a letter from Bishop Mcll van, of Ohio, cordially approving the object of the meeting. Dr. Nott, for half a century Presi dent of the Union College, Schoneclady, N. Y., of the Presbyterian Church (0. 5.,) then rose, with some assistance from Dr. Jenkins and Dr. Duffield, of Detroit—an exceedingly venerable figure, with snow white hair —and leauing on his staff, for he feels the weight of four score years, he addressed to the assemblage a few words breathing the spirit of Christian Union. — The chairman then called upon the venerable Dr. Humphrey, of the Congregational Church, late President of Amherst College, Mass., who responded in a similar strain, marked with much modesty as well as Christian fervor. The Rev. W. B. Stevens, D. D., of the Epis copal Church, who as we understood from his remarks, drafted the original paper, then ad dressed the meeting, stating that he had not imagined, when he wrote it in his study, that such consequences were to grow out of so simple and unobtrusive a movement. He was followed by the Rev. Albert Barnes, one of the signers of the paper, who carried forward the meeting in the same spirit. Prayer and singing were interspersed at intervals. Dr. Jenkins, of the Calvary Church, Presbyterian (N. S.) made a very earnest speech as to the necessity of the manifestation of the Unity which really exists among Christians, stating among other things that there is a cure for all existing divisions. The most interesting incident of the meeting occurred at this point, an incident so far as we know unparalleled in the history of Protestan ism. Dr. Nevin, of the Presbyterian Church, (0. 5.,) rose and stated that the Apostles’ Creed was one of the symbols oC his branch of the church, and it might be of all the churches repre sented, and proposed that Mr. Cracraft should repeat it as th« creed of the meeting, all stand ing and jeering m it- Instantly every individ ual efthe vast assemblage sprang to his feet — TTie Chairman began, “ I believe in God, the Father, Almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth.” Every voice joined him. Nearly two thousand people—Episcopalians, Presbyterians, (Old and New School,) Seceders, Covenanters, Dutch Re formed, German Reformed, Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, Moravians, Congregationalists, In dependents—all repeated with the simplicity of children, this grand old formula which has come down to us on the stream of ages—“l believe in God, the Father, Almighty!” Even a calm spectator, not easily excited, and standing aloof from any enthusiasm of the moment,could not but bo moved. As the “ Apostles Creed,” so called, is the only uninspired summary of Christian doc trine in which all these Churches believe, it seemed like an Act of Union of the Church Uni versal. It brought startingly, and judging from the appearance of the congregation, affectingly, to every individual the idea, so much lost sight of, that in all that is essential these Christians, cut up into what are called sects , are in fact one. Addresses and prayers followed from Rev. Dr. Newton, of the Episcopal Church, the ven erable Mr. Kennard, of the Baptist Church, Mr. Alfred Cookman, of tho Methodist, and Mr. Tay lor, of the Reformed Dutch. Mr. Cookman made the excellent remark that the points in w’hich the Evangelical Churches agree are facts, while those on which they differ are, for the most part, theories; and the latter made a touch ing allusion to the funeral of the Rev. Dudley A. Tyng, the former rector of Epiphany Church. The last speaker was Mr. Wilder, a missionary from India, who dwelt upon the interest which would be taken in this scone by the missionaries